


Rime

by Neyasochi



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blade of Marmora Keith (Voltron), Fluff, Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), Half-Galra Keith (Voltron), M/M, Northrend... but make it a planet, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22304941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyasochi/pseuds/Neyasochi
Summary: When a last minute diplomatic mission sends Shiro to a frozen world, he expects he’ll spend most of his downtime alone, cold, and fairly miserable.Until a handsome, mysterious Blade of Marmora appears, too— and they wind up sharing a room, a bed, and more.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 445





	Rime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akaowlshi (alyssissima)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyssissima/gifts).



> This fic is for aly/[@akaowlshi](https://twitter.com/akaowlshi), the winner of my giveaway on twitter!! They wanted gay disaster Shiro and Galra Keith sharing a bed on a diplomatic mission— I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> I don’t really listen to music while I write but I DO strongly associate this fic with Jerome Spence’s “Frozen” (from Terrace House: Opening New Doors) and the entire Wrath of the Lich King soundtrack.

The surface of Ymiron hovers at a steady -56 celsius during day cycles and dips forty degrees lower at night, and that alone makes the diplomatic mission to the Vrykrul Shiro’s least favorite of all time.

It wasn’t even his assignment, originally, but Hunk had come down with a rather serious bout of food poisoning after boldly trying some kind of mollusk from the equivalent of an intergalactic rest stop and, well… now it fell to Shiro. For the good of the Coalition and all that.

The sleek, Altean-made bodysuit under his uniform helps ward off the worst of the cold’s bite as he exits his ship and follows a lone escort through the icicle-fringed hangar. He waits until they’re inside the massive, castle-like complex of Utgarde Keep to deactivate his helmet, not keen on getting frostbite of the ears or nose; the air indoors is still cold enough to see his breath, the chill nipping at his lips and stinging his eyes.

In a deeper antechamber, Shiro is greeted by a towering Vrykrul, her shoulders piled high with armor and furs. He pulls the carefully crafted box from under his arm and presents it with a short bow. Inside is a piece of art— the customary gift the Vrykrul expect of visitors with good intentions— consisting of an intricately carved drazil tusk.

“You are the envoy of the Coalition we were told to expect,” she states as she accepts the offering, the translator clipped to Shiro’s ear interpreting the hard, guttural language into one he knows. One of the Vrykrul beside her keys something into a tablet, marking his arrival. “Admiral Shirogane.”

“It’s an honor,” he answers.

“I am Gruunthilda,” she says, folding her hands over her front, “We have all heard much of the Coalition and Queen Allura— and you, Admiral. There is much interest in the alliance you offer.” Gruunthilda increasingly frequent shivers. “But that is talk for tomorrow, when the summit officially begins. Tonight, you and other diplomatic guests will eat and lodge here, within the warm halls of Utgarde.”

 _Warm halls. Right._ Shiro’s expression betrays none of his inner sourness, at least, possibly because his face is already half-frozen.

“You will dine in the Ivory Hall. After, Helgus will escort you to your room. And we thank you for being understanding of Utgarde’s… limitations. It is not often we host so many esteemed guests at once,” Gruunthilda adds, her smile the tiniest bit sheepish. “The nights on Ymiron may be long and dark, but you will weather them comfortably regardless.”

Somehow, Shiro doubts that.

But the mission only lasts three days. He can survive three days of freezing his ass off for the sake of making a good impression on the Coalition’s behalf. He’s survived worse, certainly.

Helgus leads him to the Ivory Hall, a large banquet room with chandeliers made of long, curved tusks and various monstrous, stuffed beasts lining its walls. It’s warmer in here at least, six monstrous hearths crackling with flame to keep the cold at bay. Dozens of other guests mill around the long wooden table that fills the center of the room— offworld diplomats and Vrykrul hailing from parts remote, it seems, all fresh from travel.

Shiro sits at the bench of a sparsely filled stretch of table and gingerly picks at a roasted haunch, pickled fish, and a sauce of teal berries that briefly turns his tongue white. And while he eats, he studies the other off-worlders filtering in and out.

He knows most of them in some form or another, having spent the last two years on goodwill missions to dozens of systems in this sector. There are a few fresh faces, though, and one in particular catches Shiro’s eye.

They wear sleek armor in the colors of the Marmora clan, although they’re on the small side for a Galra. Smaller than Shiro, even. A thick braid sways at the middle of their back, glossy and dark. And a dagger sits sheathed on their hip, which is most curious of all— the Marmora are best known for their capable work as spies and assassins, but the hosting Vrykrul and their Queen seem not to mind that one of their guests has come armed.

And all of that fades to the periphery the moment they turn and Shiro beholds a face so jaw-droppingly beautiful that a little bit of his half-chewed dinner falls out.

“Who— who is _that?”_ Shiro blurts out loud before his better senses can curb his bewildered, eager curiosity.

“Yorak, Emissary of Marmora,” a grizzled Tuskarr further down the table answers through a full mouth. 

_Yorak,_ Shiro silently echoes, his mouth shaping the name. It’s the first time he’s actually seen one of the Blades of Marmora this close, much less maskless. And _here_ — on a planet far from Daibazaal or Feyiv or wherever the Marmora call home— on a diplomatic mission of all things.

“The Marmora don’t make many alliances,” Shiro murmurs, mostly to himself.

“No. A suspicious bunch, that lot, and dangerous to deal with,” the Tuskarr agrees. “I hear they want access to the Vrykrul’s mines, though. Still looking for a replacement for their precious luxite.”

Shiro hums in answer, half-distracted. He can’t stop looking at the Marmoran emissary across the room, all sleek, handsome lines and a face so pretty that Shiro wonders why he’s the only one staring.

Until Yorak’s head slowly twists to the side and his eyes meet Shiro’s, burningly intense even from fifteen meters away.

Shiro blushes and turns back to his complimentary meal, hurriedly stuffing food into his mouth and chewing it down, like somehow that will save him the ire of the Galra who’d caught him staring. On the plus side, though, he no longer feels cold— from the back of his nape all the way down to the soles of his feet, a nervous, feverish sweat breaks out. Under his protective thermal suit, he’s burning up with a blush that’s surely crawled its way up to the tips of his ears.

And when Shiro finally musters the courage to chance a furtive glance across the room, the emissary from Marmora is gone.

He sighs into his cup, equal parts relieved and disappointed. And with nothing left to do, Shiro leaves to find Helgus and his room for the night.

* * *

It’s a long, winding walk. Utgarde’s halls are dim and frost-touched, not quite immune to the blisteringly icy winds that constantly assault every settlement on Ymiron.

“Here is your room,” Helgus says as he leads Shiro down one last, darkened hall. The door is Vrykrul-sized, at least nine feet tall, and hand-carved with runes. “And here is your key. We are grateful for your understanding, Admiral, and it reflects well upon the Coalition. If you or your bedfellow are in needing of anything, all you must do is ask.”

“Oh, um, thank you,” Shiro says as he accepts the brasslike key, a little thrown by the strange phrasing of the translation. Right now, all he’s concerned with is getting inside and curling up to conserve body heat. Through chattering teeth, he adds, “I'm deeply appreciative of the hospitality.”

Helgus smiles under the heavy curtain of his grey beard. He offers a slight bow before he backs away, still towering over Shiro. “May the cold touch neither of you tonight.”

 _Neither of us?_ Shiro wonders if it’s just another translating issue or a specific turn of Vrykrul phrase, surveying his assigned lodgings with a weary eye and low expectations.

It’s sparse, but that fits the Vrykrul. There is a squat table with two woven cushions and a tea set, two heavy chests to store his belongings, and a large mountain of furs and blankets that Shiro assumes will serve as his bed. And while he wouldn’t normally be thrilled at the idea of sleeping on a cold stone floor in a pile of monstrously huge hides, the persistent chill makes it tempting. The bedroom is the warmest place he’s been in Utgarde thus far, but that doesn’t mean much— Shiro can still see his warm breaths turn to frost midair.

He sets down his small bag of belongings and explores each corner of the small room. Toward the back, there’s a small washroom attached, complete with modern toilets and heated water, and Shiro couldn’t be more grateful. He pulls off his gloves and warms his chilly fingers in the sink, contemplating sinking down into a hot bath for the next hour or so.

But before he can, there’s a knock at the door.

Shiro pokes his head out of the bathroom just in time to see the bedroom door open of its own accord, with the emissary of Marmora traipsing in right after.

Some of his dark hair hangs loose from his braid, framing a fine-boned, sharply angled face. He’s strikingly beautiful, from the shape of his lips to the long lashes that frame keen eyes. The pale, rosy violet of his skin is accented by darker markings along his cheeks, patterned the way Galra sometimes are.

“O-Oh, hello,” Shiro greets in Galactic common, bypassing the translator entirely. He stares at Yorak, dumbfounded to see him suddenly and nonchalantly standing in his bedroom, and hopes this isn’t about his staring at dinner. “Can I help you?”

Yorak advances with languid steps, entirely unbothered as he invades Shiro's room. His head tilts. “What are you offering to help me with?”

“Um,” Shiro hems, lost and slightly worried about the dagger on Yorak’s hip. “Anything?”

A dark, sleek eyebrow arches above Yorak’s questioning stare. “I… I guess you could help me remove my armor. If you want to.”

“Absolutely,” Shiro croaks out, the insulated suit under his uniform suddenly feeling like a pocket of steam. 

“Let me grab my nightclothes, first,” Yorak says, matter of fact as he side-steps Shiro and heads toward one of the chests. He flips it open, rummages, and withdraws a small, grey-leather bag.

While Yorak sifts through and pulls out softer pieces of clothing, a few small bottles, and what looks like a fine comb carved from faded bone, Shiro’s brow furrows deeper and deeper.

“Wait… why are your things already in my roo— oh,” he groans, gaze darting from the twin chests to the table for two, the tea set with two cups, and the two paper itineraries left by the door. “Oh. It’s _our_ room.”

Slowly, Yorak turns to him. Now both brows are raised.

“You didn’t know?” Yorak questions before stooping to unlace his tall boots. “With all the guests from Ymiron and beyond, Utgarde is at more than capacity. And with heat being one of the Vrykrul’s most limited resources, doubling a few of us up ensures no one goes cold. They sent out a request two or three movements ago. You must’ve agreed,” he determines.

Shiro _hadn’t,_ though. Hunk, on the other hand...

“I sort of stepped in at the last minute to fulfill this mission,” Shiro tries to explain, giving Yorak what he hopes is an ingratiating smile. Playing catch-up on an assignment that Hunk had spent the better part of two phoebs planning hasn’t been easy. “Please forgive me if I’m a little out of the loop.”

“I understand.” Yorak snorts as he tugs his boots free and sets them aside. “This mission was a surprise for me, too.”

The corner of Shiro’s mouth tugs, glad to have found a sliver of common ground with the emissary of Marmora. “And you went in for a roommate, huh? That’s brave.”

“Being paired off was less of a choice for me,” Yorak murmurs. “The Vrykrul were willing to let me keep my blade— they’re warriors, too, bonded to their blades— on the condition I wasn’t left to my own devices. I suspect they’re hoping you’ll keep an eye on me.”

Shiro straightens at the implication of one more responsibility, and one he has zero qualifications to hold. He’s pretty sure that if Yorak had half a mind, he could julienne him on the spot. “Oh. Okay.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Yorak says, his sharp eyes cutting away. “I have no ulterior motives here.”

“I’m not worried.” That’s a lie. Shiro is very worried for many reasons, not the least of which is the dawning realization that their room only contains _one_ bed, massive as it is.

One room. One bed. One extremely attractive Galra spy-slash-maybe-assassin he’s expected to share it with.

And there’s no recourse, either. No spare rooms to run to. No alternative to bedding down under that pile of furs, if he’d like to wake up without frostbite. There’s also no way to opt out without offending both his hosts _and_ the Blades of Marmora, potentially.

Shiro’s survived a lot, but he’s not sure how he’ll make it through one night of sleeping beside a total stranger— much less _three._

“I’m Takashi Shirogane, by the way. Most everyone calls me Shiro, though,” he introduces, a little late and a little lame. He thumps his chest in a traditional Galra greeting, although it’s one he’s only seen used by Galra of the Imperial variety.

“The Admiral,” Yorak says, voice low as he eyes him. He mirrors back the greeting, although with a less rigid form. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Good things, I hope.” Shiro smiles.

Yorak does not smile back. “You’re from Earth,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like a question. “You can call me Keith, then.”

“Keith?” Shiro reflexively questions. “Not Yorak?”

“Either works. Yorak is the warrior’s name my mother gave me. Keith is— it’s my other name,” he says, the long points of his ears wilting slightly. “I don’t get to use it much,” he mumbles by way of explanation.

“Keith,” Shiro tries, clinging to the little connection they’ve made. “It’s a good name.”

“Shiro isn’t bad either,” Keith says, giving him the barest shadow of a smile.

Shiro’s useless heart flutters. Desperate for an escape from whatever Keith has him feeling, he lifts a hand and gestures vaguely to the bathroom. “Um, d-do you need anything before I wash up?”

“I bathed earlier,” Keith says. “But I’d appreciate the assistance with my armor first.”

“Oh. Sure.” Shiro steps up to him at once, his body all impulse while his brain lags well behind; then he hesitates, aware all at once that he has no clue _what_ to do. Keith’s Marmora armor looks almost seamless, the flexible plating and durable, fabric-like weave giving no indication of how they’re to be removed.

“The back,” Keith says, lifting up his messy braid as he turns to show Shiro his nape.

Shiro sweats. His fingers fumble along the material that stretches up around Keith’s neck, blunt nails scraping until he finds a tiny clasp, an airtight seal, and a hidden zipper. 

The relief of figuring it out is short-lived. As Keith’s suit peels further and further down, Shiro quickly realizes there’s nothing else underneath— just more lavender skin, smooth and supple and dusted with a light, peachy fuzz down the back of his neck. He freezes in place once Keith’s strong shoulders are laid bare, their impressive muscle patterned with thin scars and the same dark marks that decorate his cheeks.

Shiro was ready for dry negotiations, some awkward cultural misunderstandings, and hours spent lying in bed alone, catching up on reports or a new book; nothing in his briefing prepared him for disrobing a hot alien on day one.

His hands hover just a few inches from Keith’s back, able to feel the heat pouring off of his body even through his gloves. “I…”

“I can handle it from here,” Keith says, already tugging the suit down to his waist.

Shiro turns on his heel, heart pounding against his ribs with the frantic pace of a distress signal, and makes a beeline to the bathroom. The situation demands more professionalism than he has to give at the moment— maybe more than he’s capable of, given the circumstances.

Temptation rallies strong just before Shiro makes a clean getaway. Just before closing the bathroom door behind him, he pauses. Through the narrow gap, he peeks out and into their room, where Keith stands bare from the hips up, his legs clad in skintight armor that stirrups around the bottoms of his bare feet. 

Shiro watches as he twists at the waist— so narrow that Shiro could easily fit his hands around it, but corded through with sinewy muscle— and starts working his fingers over a tactical belt, ready to finish stripping.

With a fiery blush, Shiro pulls the door all the way shut. His eyes close, breaths misting the dark, freezing metal along the doorframe.

He shucks off his own clothes, shivering at the chill in the air, and happily sinks into the steamy heat of a fresh bath. It’s the best he’s felt since leaving the ATLAS more than twenty hours ago, the cold finally loosening its grip on him and warm relaxation taking its place.

Shiro dries with one of the coarse, absorbant towels stacked nearby and hastily pulls on an old pair of Garrison-issued pajamas. They’re comfortable and warm and well-loved, and it shows in the fraying hems and holes and a few faint stains where he’d once accidentally squirted himself with sriracha. If he’d known that he’d be sharing a room with another foreign dignitary— and a bed, too— he would’ve opted to pack something a little more tasteful.

Already shivering, Shiro steps back into his boots, unwilling to touch the stone floor with his bare feet, and awkwardly hobbles back out into the room.

Keith is gone.

Or wait— he’s in the bed, actually, the furs stacked on the floor moving slightly as something under them shifts. Maybe he’s even sleeping already.

Shiro hopes so. For a while, he shuffles about the room with no real purpose. It’s been _years_ since he’s shared a bed with anyone, much less a total stranger— and one he needs to maintain some level of decorum around, as if the whole ordeal isn’t already awkward enough.

Eventually, though, he accepts the inevitable. Gingerly, he sits down by the bed and kicks off his boots, as nervous of crawling into bed beside the handsome emissary as he is desperate to escape the cold already leaching through his polyester-blend sweats. With a deep breath, he lifts the edge of the heavy covers, hoping to slip in without Keith even noticing.

But Shiro’s luck has always been tragic, and as soon as he scooches into the bed, he suddenly feels himself sliding sideways. Taken by surprise, he starts to roll onto his side, then his front, and no amount of flailing in the warm, heavy darkness slows his unexpected momentum.

He stops only when he rolls onto something solid, with just a little give. Something warm. Something slightly fuzzy.

There’s a soft, stifled grunt under Shiro. The body under him wiggles.

_Keith._

Horrified, Shiro awkwardly pushes himself up and off of Keith, apologizing in a panicked flurry of words that he himself can barely track.

“Admi— Shiro, Shiro stop,” Keith huffs. Two slim hands plant themselves on Shiro’s chest, easily pushing him aside; his dark eyes gleam in the dark, catching the faintest light from Shiro’s comm bracelet. “It’s fine. _I’m_ fine. You’ve slept in a bed before, though, right?”

Shiro opens his mouth, already blushing in mortified embarrassment, before he picks up on Keith’s profoundly subtle tone of teasing. “I— yes, I have, actually. But never one like _this,”_ he murmurs as he tries to get his bearings and arrange himself more… appropriately.

As in, not crushing Keith.

The Vrykrul bed is unlike anything he’s ever seen— large and oval and concave, with the thick, woven padding underneath them dipping down deep into the stone floor. Like a nest, almost. Or a shallow gouge in the earth, only it’s topped with thickly padded blankets and lush furs, like a cradle for warmth.

And it _is_ warm. So achingly, welcomely warm after so long spent shivering and bone-chilled. Shiro could spend the next three days hunkered down in this bed, weathering the awful cold in cozy bliss.

Keith’s presence complicates things, though. No matter how Shiro tries to shift and settle his weight so there’s some space between them, he inexorably slides back down into the middle of the bowl-like bed, pressed flush against the intimidating Blade of Marmora he’s bedding with.

“S-Sorry, so sorry,” he whispers while trying in vain to keep his hips from bumping into Keith. Maybe the apology only draws more attention to it; either way, Shiro wishes the earthen bed would deepen a little more and swallow him up, saving him further distress.

“There’s no need, Shiro. It’s the way it’s designed,” Keith yawns, more at ease with being forced against a total stranger than Shiro would’ve expected from a clan so standoffish. “A necessity.”

“Necessity,” Shiro scoffs as he tries to prop himself up on an elbow. It slips out from under him while he struggles to find a better angle to distance himself from Keith’s very appealing form, landing him right in front of Keith once more, practically nose-to-nose.

It’s too dark to tell for sure, but Shiro thinks Keith might be smiling at him. Or at his futile efforts, at least.

“Ymiron is a frozen wasteland on the surface, but underneath all the ice and snow is a planet with enormous volcanic potential,” Keith tells him.

“I remember reading that,” Shiro says, perking. The shift in conversation is the perfect distraction from the way Keith’s legs are brushing against his own, and how he smells a little like cactus flowers, and how _small_ he is by comparison. “High rate of radioactive decay deep in the planet’s core, lots of naturally occurring geothermal reservoirs… plenty of geothermal energy to harness. Aside from the ass-biting cold, Ymiron is apparently best-known for its geysers and fumaroles and freezing magma flows.”

Keith is _definitely_ smiling. “Right. Pretty much every Vrykrul settlement sits above an area of intense hydrothermal activity. Underneath us,” he says, tapping the padded cushion under them, “there’s a lake of steam and boiling water. It’s what keeps the stone warm here. Well, relatively warm, I guess.”

So it’s not just from the body heat they’re both shedding, insulated by the pile of thick furs draped across the scooped-out bed. Warmth radiates low and gentle from the ground itself, where they’re dug down to better reach the volcanic heat seeping up through the dark stone.

“I guess this is now my favorite place on Ymiron,” Shiro jokes, but not really. Beside him, masked in the dark, Keith makes a soft sound that might be a laugh.

Shiro hums and folds his arms over his chest, attempting to keep his hands to himself, and tries not to dwell too much upon all the places his body is brushing against Keith’s. The bed’s sloping sides keep them lulled them together, heat pooling between them. Keith himself burns like a furnace, the bare skin revealed by loose nightclothes hot to the touch.

Shiro can’t help but relax into it, soothed down to the frozen marrow in his bones. With Keith’s slight body angled into his own, he dozes and dreams of bright sun, warm waves, and fiery lips against his own.

* * *

He wakes in warm, snug bliss, cocooned under the weight of a dozen heavy pelts and woven blankets. Shiro’s still not quite conscious as he stretches his legs and pushes his hips forward, drowsily pleased at the solidity and friction he finds. He rocks into it, eyes still closed as he lazily chases the feeling, and lets out a dreamy little moan.

Until a choked sound answers him and Shiro’s eyes fly open in panic, abruptly remembering where he is and who he’s with.

Spooned around Keith, hips frozen mid-roll against his rear. With an arm slung over Keith’s tapered middle. And a mouthful of his hair.

For a few moments, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t _breathe,_ even. All his sleepy, amorous affections wilt, and part of him wonders if Keith is going to stake him to the bed with that wicked-looking dagger of his.

“I need to get up,” Keith rasps after a few drawn seconds trickly by, far too calm. His lean and limber body twists as he slips out of Shiro’s petrified hold and climbs out of the bed.

“What the _fuck,”_ Shiro mutters to himself, hands folded over his face as he hears the bathroom door snap shut, and later the rustling of clothing. He’s going to be sent limping back to the ATLAS before Ymiron’s diplomatic summit even starts, dishonorably dismissed for horniness. Allura will _kill_ him— if Keith doesn’t first.

It feels like it might be the end for him when the many layers of furs and blankets above are peeled back, exposing Shiro the frigid air and whatever fate Keith has in store for him.

“Keith— Y-Yorak, I can’t apologize enough to—” 

“Would you help with my armor again?”

Shiro’s hands part. He peeks up through the gap, red-faced and slack-jawed. “You’re not going to destroy me?”

“Not today, no,” Keith says, the hint of a smile curving his lips. He extends a gloved hand down to Shiro. “Come up here. There’s not much time before the morning feast starts.”

The room is bitingly, bracingly chilly after the toasty contentment of the bed; Shiro’s greatest consolation is that the floor is semi-warm under his bare feet, the stone holding the rising geothermal heat.

Goosepimples rise on Shiro’s bare skin as he laces up the back of Keith’s Marmora suit, and not only from the cold. His fingers brush over the soft hair along Keith’s nape, wishing he could instead run them over the sleek plaits of his braid, or even through the long, loose locks themselves.

And then, with a short nod at Shiro in his ratty old sweats and oversized hoodie, Keith leaves.

Shiro hurries through his morning routine, shivering as he zips himself into his own suit and layers his Coalition uniform over it. And by the time he finds his way through Utgarde’s winding stone corridors and out into the Great Hall, it’s already thrumming with hundreds of voices and a low current of what he assumes is Vrykrul music.

There’s no sign of Keith in the crowd, which disappoints Shiro more than it ought to; he’s here to make friends with the Vrykrul, not a lone Blade of Marmora. The breakfast feast fades into chatter, then hours of individual meetings, which Helgus comes to summon him for.

It goes well, Shiro thinks. The Vrykrul are still new to interplanetary diplomacy and trade, but they’re willing to pursue formal arrangements with the Coalition. At the dinner feast after, squished between two Balmerans, Shiro keeps hunting for a glimpse of dark hair, dark eyes, a lean, deadly-looking outfit with a long, belted dagger.

No luck.

He trusts Keith will be waiting back in their room, though, and is proven right when he opens the door and finds Keith’s boots sitting neatly inside.

Stripped-off armor rests atop Keith’s chosen chest, along with an axe that looks to be of Vrykrul-make. A gift, probably. Warrior-to-warrior. Maybe that means Keith’s mission has gone well, too.

With Keith locked in the bathroom, Shiro hastily changes and sinks down into the warmth of the bed, unable to endure the pressing cold any longer. He can take a bath tomorrow morning, he figures, before wrapping up negotiations and pleasantries. 

It’s not as warm without Keith beside him, but Shiro thaws out fast under the heavy insulation of so many pelts. And he’s halfway asleep by the time he hears movement above— the heavy bathroom door sliding open, the faint clinking of metal, the shutting of a chest. He stretches up and pokes his head out above the blankets to make sure the bathroom is free, hoping to at least floss and brush his teeth before fully collapsing into slumber.

Shiro gets more than he’d bargained for with an eyeful of long, lean legs and taut muscle, Keith’s freshly washed body wrapped in just one coarse, bristly towel while he gathers up his nightclothes.

“Bathroom’s free if you want it,” Keith says, his gaze sliding sideways to where Shiro’s wide eyes and floofy white hair peep up from the well of the bed.

Shiro can’t form words so he leaves instead, broad shoulders hunched as he ducks into the bathroom. The chill air and a few splashes of icy water help to clear his thoughts, although sleeping directly beside Keith after seeing that is sure to be even more of a trial than last night

He waits ten, fifteen minutes, hoping the coast will be clear by the time he slinks back out into the bedroom. Instead, he finds Keith still up and awake, sitting on folded legs upon one of the cushions by the table as he carefully cleans his luxite dagger.

“Keith.” Shiro blinks, surprised to see him sitting so comfortably in the nighttime cold. “Hi.”

“Shiro,” he acknowledges with a tip of his head. “Sorry if I startled you earlier. I’m used to communal bathing, living, whatever. I forget that other cultures find it… objectionable.”

“Oh, I don’t object to it at all,” Shiro rushes over himself to say, blush deepening across his cheeks in its wake. “You, I mean. Seeing you, um, in any state. Not that I was looking! Or trying to, in-inappropriately, that is. I mean, _no,_ even on the ATLAS I can’t say I’m used to having my fellow officers walking around naked in my room, but that’s— this is different. And you’re— obviously, I’m not displeased with looking up and seeing— you have very nice, uh…”

Keith hums, eyes locked on Shiro while his fingers deftly work over every inch of his blade with a polishing cloth.

“You know what?” Shiro asks, laughing at how miserably little self-control he seems to have in Keith’s company. He nods toward the bed. “I’m just going to crawl back in there and shrivel up, if you don’t mind.”

Shiro crouches down and rolls under the covers before Keith can give him another silent, soul-piercing look, limp as he slides down its gentle slope and lands facedown at the bottom.

He doesn’t fight it. With a pinch of better luck, he might suffocate before he has to look Keith in the eye ever again.

But Keith finds him before a merciful death can, his surprisingly dense weight settling solidly against Shiro’s side.

“Shiro. Shiro. Shiro?” Keith’s voice grows closer, til his breath tickles at Shiro’s ear. “Are you still alive, Shiro? You know, if you really did shrivel up, there’d be more room.”

Despite himself, Shiro snorts into the padding. 

“I’d rather you not, though,” Keith continues. One of his hands comes to rest at the center of Shiro’s broad back, reassuring even as it draws a shiver down his spine. “You’re good company.”

Shiro rolls over at that, needing to see Keith’s face to determine if he’s being sarcastic. He squints up in the darkness, trying to read what few impressions his weaker human eyes can gather. “Me?”

In the absence of light, tented under a mound of blankets together, Keith’s eyes hold a faint, purple-tinged glow. He nods, one hand bracing against Shiro’s chest to help keep himself from sliding down into him.

“I was worried when I was first told I would be sharing a room with some diplomat I’d never met,” Keith whispers. “I tried to get out of it. Several times, actually. And that was when they mentioned it would be _you._ Admiral Takashi Shirogane. The former Black Paladin.”

Shiro’s heart beats heavy in his chest. “And that changed your mind?”

“That, and the fact that they wouldn’t let me carry my dagger otherwise.” Keith’s tone is teasing again; Shiro thinks he’s getting better at reading it. “The Blades have kept tabs on you for years, all the way back before the fall of the Empire. There were times we happened to fight alongside you and the paladins, even.”

Shiro remembers that, vaguely. The Blades of Marmora are a rare sight, as much from their infamous stealth as their small numbers, but on occasion Shiro had glimpsed flashes of their dark-hued uniforms in battle or their eerie masks watching from shadowed recesses. He suspects that more than once, the Blades also helped facilitate the paladins’ escape by disabling Imperial defenses and jamming signals. “It sounds like you were there.”

Keith nods. “At Central Command, at the Kral Zera, aboard the _Kaltor’s Will…_ I watched you fight.”

“You did?” Shiro asks, thinking of the tumultuous time before Zarkon’s fall and the reform of the Galra Empire. He’d been on the front lines, then, a paladin and vanguard with a desperate need to be worthy of the title. It’s strange to think that Keith’s first impression of him formed years ago, then, long before he made a fool of himself in a shared room. “What did you think?”

“That I liked what I saw.”

Shiro almost chokes on his own spit. “Really?”

“Really,” Keith sighs, equal parts tired and amused. “So you don’t need to be so on edge around me. I like you, Shiro. I’m glad we ended up together.”

“Oh. Same, Keith. I mean, I guess it’s obvious how much I enjoyed it,” he sheepishly mumbles, blushing in the dark, where Keith hopefully can’t see. Still reeling from the thought that Keith had seen him before, knew him better than he let on, and _likes_ him, even, Shiro starts rambling. “Could you imagine sharing a bed with one of the Tuskarr? Or a Taujeerian? Or that one Krellian with all the phlegm?” he asks, nose wrinkling. 

“No. I refuse to,” Keith answers, letting out a softly snorted laugh. “I’d much rather enjoy the reality I lucked into than imagine any others.”

Shiro doesn’t know what to say to that other than a soft, breathless, _“Wow.”_ And then, “You’re kind of smooth, aren’t you?”

Now Keith laughs for real, in full, the sound a pleasing mix of raspy timbre and genuine amusement. “Not really, no. Talking to you feels natural, though. Being with you feels natural, too.”

Keith relaxes the arm currently pushing them apart, letting it bend at the elbow until he slips down flush against Shiro’s front; his hand stays on Shiro’s chest, pinned between them as the bed’s sloping sides bring them back together.

And this time, Shiro doesn’t feel like he has to struggle to fight it.

* * *

Sleep brings them even closer, tangling together while they dream. By the time the alarm on Shiro’s bracelet beeps, he comes to with heavy, hazy contentment and a faint strain on every breath.

Groggily, the darkness under the covers takes shape. Shiro feels his way up the solid heat stretched out atop him, tracing the curves of finely muscled thighs, the dip of an elegant back, the swell of strong shoulders. _Keith._

He must’ve climbed on top of Shiro sometime in the night, the way a cat might loaf on their human’s chest while they sleep. And it’s not an unpleasant burden to bear, being blanketed in Keith and his radiating heat.

Shiro wonders if it’s too much to nose into Keith’s sleep-mussed hair and smell whatever subtly floral, faintly sweet soap he uses. Whatever it is, it smells good. Clean. Perfectly suited to the man wrapped up in his arms, slumbering away atop the rising and falling over Shiro’s chest. Listening to his heartbeat, maybe. And leaving a widening pool of drool on the front of Shiro’s heather grey Garrison hoodie? Definitely.

Even that’s kind of nice, though. _Human,_ in the vaguest, least literal sense. Keith isn’t the distant, unattainable kind of perfection Shiro had almost taken him for at first glance, but someone rather like himself instead.

The alarm on Shiro’s bracelet beeps again, warning. If he lingers too long, he;ll miss his chance to take a bath before presenting himself to the Vrykrul leadership council one last time— and Shiro needs it, all damp and faintly sticky with his own night-sweat and some of Keith’s, too.

Above him, Keith starts to wriggle and writhe, stirred by the sound of the alarm. He turns his head and buries his face in Shiro’s chest, blindly seeking out his presence; the faintest sounds of wheezing make Shiro halfway worry that Keith’s going to smother himself in his sleep.

“Keith,” he whispers, kneading gently into the stretch of Keith’s side that lays bare, his loose top pushed high while he slept. “It’s time to wake up.”

Keith whines and pushes his face deeper into Shiro’s chest, as if it will shelter him from the reality of morning. When Shiro continues to carefully poke and prod him awake, Keith nuzzles down against his neck instead, hot breath leaving damp patches on Shiro’s bare skin. 

“I need to take a bath,” Shiro reluctantly voices, wishing he could bask under Keith for at least the next eight hours.

Keith seems even more reluctant to let him go, if that’s possible. He stretches out where he lay atop Shiro, fighting to get sleepy-comfortable again, and makes no effort to move until Shiro whispers in his ear that they’re going to be late for the final day of the summit, all rumpled as they walk into the Great Hall together.

And even then, Keith is slow to slough off of him, clinging at Shiro even as he backward-crawls up and out of the bed.

All the heat he’s soaked overnight lingers under Shiro’s skin, warding against the icy chill that’s wormed its way into their room. He washes himself clean in steaming water pumped from the boiling rivers and lakes under the Ymiron’s surface, thoughts continually drifting back to Keith and last night’s talk.

“You waited for me?” Shiro asks, smiling crookedly as he steps out of the bathroom, still doing the last buttons on his uniform jacket.

“Mhm,” Keith answers, fiddling with his freshly redone braid. His smile is small but noticeable as he beckons Shiro to the door, gaze noticeably dipping to take in the form-fitting stretch of Shiro’s thermal suit before he finishes buttoning his uniform jacket over it. “Let’s go before the breakfast buffet is picked clean.”

Sitting beside Keith makes the morning meal more than bearable— it’s practically a treat. Shiro picks at the tastiest morsels on his plate while watching Keith indiscriminately put away three platters’ worth of the Vrykrul’s breakfast offerings, wide-eyed as he tries to figure out where Kerith’s lithe body puts it all. And once Keith is finally sated, they sip sweetened mead and take turns talking about themselves.

It starts simple, with a back and forth about their favorite kinds of foods— Keith has a liking for all things sour and spicy, while Shiro nurses a sweet tooth and a fondness for comforting, homelike soups— and the places they’ve traveled across the stars.

And for a moment, the universe feels truly small when Keith quietly admits that he was born on Earth, to a human father in a lonely ranch deep in the Arizona wilds— and no more than a stone’s throw from the Galaxy Garrison headquarters where Shiro would later train and serve in.

“That’s wild,” Shiro whispers, wondering at how cosmically improbable it is that they should’ve had so many glancing encounters, so many near misses. He leans in closer, head bent to speak into Keith’s ear. “If you hadn’t left with your mother, we might’ve met back on Earth. Before everything went to shit, maybe.”

A strange, formless disappointment ghosts through Shiro at the thought, missing something he’d never had.

“Maybe so,” Keith murmurs back, angling himself toward Shiro. Their calves meet under the table, knees rubbing with every little movement.

Shiro reddens as Keith’s ankle casually hooks around one of his own, well away from any wandering eyes; hopefully the other guests up and down the table take his blush for a side effect of the morning mead, if they even notice it at all.

Eventually they circle back to the recent war, as most conversations eventually do. It’s amazing to hear in detail about all the times they’ve crossed paths before— at least three, but Keith’s count— with Shiro none the wiser. And sure enough, whenever their targets overlapped, Keith would go out of his way to tailor the Blades’ sabotage to aid the paladins, too.

“You helped us get out of a few tight scrapes, then,” Shiro says, jovial from the slight buzz of Vrykrul ale and the way Keith’s leg keeps rubbing his under the table. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You could take me for a walk in the Summer Gardens after all this is over,” Keith says before taking a deep swig from his stein, a crooked finger gesturing to the whole diplomatic affair around them. “We can skip out on the closing feast a little early.”

“The Summer Garden?”

“It’s a vast central courtyard with a bunch of hydrothermal features. It’s supposed to be one of the more enjoyable parts of Utgarde.”

“Was that in the briefing they sent out, too?” Shiro questions, eyebrows lifting. At the amused shake of Keith’s head, he adds, “How do you know so much about this place if it’s your first time here, too?”

“I’m a Blade of Marmora,” Keith says, smiling. “It’s my job to know things. Knowledge or death.”

“Knowledge or death,” Shiro repeats, his brow furrowing. “Not ‘victory or death?’”

“Nope. Our way is different.” With that, Keith stands to seek out one last meeting with the Vrykrul’s mining council, his duty to his people still requiring some attention. His hand settles lightly on Shiro’s left shoulder, it’s claw-tipped gauntlets curling delicately into pale, gold-trimmed fabric; his touch trails across Shiro’s back as he leaves, one shoulder to the other, lingering as long as he can.

A shiver courses up and down Shiro’s spine intermittently for a full five minutes after, reminding him of Keith long after he’s disappeared into some icy, stone-walled hallway.

* * *

They slip out of the Great Hall together while the celebratory feast marking the end of the summit is still in full swing, the boisterous sound of several hundred celebrating Vrykrul and offworld visitors echoing for ages.

Keith takes his hand as he leads them down dark, torchlit halls gilded in frost, eyes shining in the dim light whenever he looks back. Shiro quickens his step to match Keith’s excited trot, a nervous, elated giggle threatening to slip past his chattering teeth every time Keith holds a finger to his lips or tugs them behind a column while bored patrols of Vrykrul lumber past.

He feels like a teenager again, sneaking out of the Garrison after hours to ride his hoverbike under the stars, still dreaming of flying far, far from Earth. Only now he has a co-conspirator, a handsome partner in reckless fun, and Shiro only wishes they had longer together to enjoy it.

The Summer Garden is unlike anything Shiro would’ve imagined.

Hard, frozen stone gives way to yielding moss and lichens, the warm earth blooming with strange, beautiful flowers that feed on the ambient moisture. Steam drifts through the air, warm and heavy with a mineral scent Shiro can’t quite place. And the courtyard that holds it all is vast— so vast that its furthest wall is little more than a hazy shadow on the horizon.

As far as he can tell, they’re alone in the Gardens, most of the other guests still preoccupied with feasting. Overhead, the unforgiving winds howl as they gust across the domed particle barrier that shields all of Utgarde. Thin flurries of kicked-up snow dance over the barrier’s ice-frosted surface; and above it all, Ymiron’s giant moon shines down, cold and bright.

Keith doesn’t let go of his hand as they step out into steam and twinkling shafts of fallen moonlight; Shiro takes the added step of lacing their fingers together, happy to explore with Keith by his side.

They stroll through verdant fields and over stone walkways and bridges, past steaming fumaroles, bubbling mudpots, and dozens of hot springs. Each spring is more beautiful than the last, mist wafting over pools in a rainbow of colors— the clearest blues, vivid yellows and oranges, greens and pinks and rusted reds.

“We have these on Earth, too,” Shiro says as they circle around a particularly striking pool, admiring the many hues created by the microorganisms that call its scalding waters home. “Not that I saw any of them in person before. Not like this.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Keith says, smiling as they stop before a terrace of calcite formations streaked with metallic reds, blacks, silvers. “Geysers, yeah, under some less than enjoyable circumstances,” he adds, wincing, “but this? This is _nice._ And warm. And a little bit smelly.”

“Just a little,” Shiro agrees, his nose wrinkling.

It feels late. They’ve spent more than a varga wandering around the Summer Gardens together, murmuring about the unwise temptation to skinny dip, the giant moon overhead, and the home constellations they miss most.

And Keith is even more beautiful like this, his lavender skin dewy with mist and his cheeks dusted with a plum-hued blush. Smiling, the little points of his canines glimmering in the moonlight. _Laughing,_ even, as Shiro tells him about the onsen trip that had landed him in hot water.

By tripping and landing in hot water, literally.

“You went in headfirst?”

“Headfirst. Buck naked. Sailing right over my grandfather. He couldn’t _believe_ I’d gotten so much air. He talked about it for days,” Shiro says, grin splitting wider as Keith laughs again, softer and lower in pitch. “In my defense, the stone was really slippery and I was the gawkiest teenager alive, so…”

“You’ve certainly changed, then,” Keith says, looking him up and down from the corner of one yellow-tinted eye. “And if I’d been there, I’d have caught you before you fell. _I_ was a very dextrous teenager.”

Looking at Keith, Shiro believes it’s more fact than boast. “Well, I grew about a foot over the course of one summer and had minimal control of my new height _or_ my lanky limbs for at least a year. I might’ve been uncoordinated enough to bring you down with me.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad, either,” Keith says, subdued enough that it could almost go unheard under the hissing of steam and the wet bubbling of the nearby mudpots.

They stop in front of another hot spring, thin trails of steam rising off of its sunset pink and dusky purple waters in ribbons, and naturally come to stand angled in toward each other. They’re still joined by the hand, Shiro’s palm all sweaty under the insulation of his sleek gloves.

He watches Keith while Keith stares at the shimmering reflection of the moon on the water, studying the highlights on achingly high cheekbones and perfect lips, the subtle scarring along his jaw, the way his long eyelashes gleam with fine droplets of mist.

Drawn by something inexorable and unthinking, Shiro cranes his neck down, slow and smooth and unflinching. The color of Keith’s eyes is mesmerizing, as are the darker lines of color that start in slashes across his cheeks before running down the column of his slender throat. And then he freezes, stockstill, as Keith turns and they’re suddenly nose-to-nose.

Keith’s inhale is soft, not quite surprised but breathless all the same. “Shiro?”

“Keith.” He doesn’t look anywhere but Keith, trying to fix every detail of his handsome, moonlit face in mind. And then he closes his eyes and leans in, head tilting, until his lips graze Keith’s in a featherlight shadow of a kiss.

They’re even softer than he’d expected.

Keith bridges the tiny gap between them to press his mouth firmly into Shiro’s, their lips dragging together. Shiro can tell when he stretches upward, pushing deeper into the kiss; he can feel the pinprick tickling of Keith’s sharp canines, glancing light over delicate skin.

For a moment, Shiro forgets himself. His rank, his allegiances, reputation. The mission he’d come here to Ymiron to complete. He’s just _Shiro_ again, at ease with himself as he melts into the lips on his, the hands braced on his shoulders, the slender body pressing against his own.

Until the approaching clink of armor and a shuffling step has them both stumbling apart, wary and nervous— but it’s only a pair of Vrykrul guards patrolling the perimeter, no doubt wanting to keep an eye on the two guests still lingering overlong in the gardens.

Shiro burns under his skin, all the Garden’s heat and steam suddenly stifling. His breaths are shallow, winded like he’s just finished an intensive piloting simulation. The metal hand he’d brought up to rest on Keith’s hip gradually falls back into place at his side, fingers curling for want of more contact.

Keith stares up at him with stunning, intensely focused eyes, the little downturn to his mouth disappointed. His bottom lip glistens where moonlight falls across it, wetter and brighter after a quick sweep of his tongue.

“It must be getting late,” Shiro murmurs, although he wishes the night would stretch itself out just for them. He’s unsure what else to say now that the moment has tapered off into something less certain. “Are you ready to head back? I have an early departure time tomorrow.”

“Mine’s early, too,” Keith glumly answers. His hand finally slips out of Shiro’s, but it doesn’t stray far; his touch trails up Shiro’s arm, gently taking his elbow. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Most of the wondrous, magical feeling Shiro’d had as they explored the Summer Gardens together shrivels and fades in the nighttime iciness of Utgarde’s halls, but a sliver of it keeps humming along inside him. It wards against the worsened chill that licks against Shiro’s skin, sharper now that he’s been kissed by steam and basked in humid warmth. Keith’s close presence helps, too.

Shiro feels half a teenager again, kissing the boy he likes and then not quite knowing what to do with himself after. There isn’t much time to figure it out, either.

The night’s rimy, bitter cold has fully settled in by the time they scurry back into their room. Shiro’s face is numb, his nose running, his fingers aching even through the advanced thermal insulation of his full-body suit. His trembling is violent enough that Keith takes note, worriedly rubbing his back even as he pushes Shiro toward the bathroom.

At Keith’s impatient, unyielding insistence, Shiro bathes first. The steaming spring water almost hurts at first, all the numb parts of himself stinging as heat suddenly flows through them again. It melts the tension in him next. Shiro reclines in the deep tub and enjoys the soak for a few minutes more, knowing it will be the last chance he has before he leaves Ymiron tomorrow morning.

And when it comes time to trade off, Shiro hastily dried and dressed and eager to jump into bed, his eye still can’t help catch on Keith’s athletic form as he passes.

Less than an hour ago, he’d been holding him. _Kissing_ him. It already feels like a dream.

Keith pauses at the bathroom door and looks over his shoulder, catching Shiro mid-stare. He’s getting worse at hiding his smiles.

“Can you help?” he asks, claw-tipped fingers tapping at the armored suit covering the back of his neck.

“How could I say no?” Shiro manages to undo Keith’s sleek uniform with steadier fingers this time, unzipping down to the small of Keith’s back and gingerly helping him shrug out of it.

“I’ll make it quick,” Keith promises as he steps inside the bathroom, all that bared skin disappearing with a snap as the door slides shut.

And then Shiro is left alone with the evening’s freshly-formed memories, surreal as they are— Keith’s hand wrapped around his, the rare sight of his pointy-toothed smile, his sleek hair sparkling with steamy mist and moonlight.

He’s still wide awake when Keith slips into the bed well after him, hair and skin lightly damp from the bath. This time, there’s no awkward elbowing or struggling efforts to keep a respectful distance; under the cumulative weight of a dozen heavy furs and blankets, Keith brazenly slides down atop Shiro and straddles his middle.

“Uh, hi,” Shiro says, the heat simmering under his skin suddenly pooling low in his belly, under the heavy press of Keith’s hips.

“Didn’t want to waste time when we don’t have much,” Keith says as he gets comfortable, sprawled out atop Shiro with his chin pillowed on a rounded chest.

It’s a good point— and impossible to argue with, especially while Keith is covering him the way he is. Shiro grunts out some mix of agreement and approval, unwinding slow under Keith’s beacon-like warmth. His hands settle lightly around Keith’s waist, gratified to feel warm, bare skin where his loose top has pushed up.

He smiles as Keith leans in to kiss him this time, nipping at his bottom lip in excitement. Gently, still, but with a purring excitement that stokes the fire building to a low roar in Shiro’s belly.

Shiro could kiss Keith like this for hours, feeling him up under the covers and tasting across his bare skin. _Would,_ if he didn’t have a tricky sixteen-varga flight lined up for tomorrow.

“Never thought I’d find myself wishing I could stay on this hunk of ice a little longer,” Shiro murmurs. They’ve only met, really, but it feels like he already knows Keith in some strange, unspoken way that counts for more; and Shiro wants to know him better still, over the course of quintants and movements and phoebs.

Time that they don’t have, unfortunately.

Keith smiles gently against the thin, delicate skin along the underside of Shiro’s throat in between leaving suckling kisses that are sure to bruise and mark. “For me?”

“Certainly not for the gristly roasts or the ass-biting cold,” Shiro mutters, turning his head to one side as Keith half-kisses, half-licks a stripe up the side of his neck. “So yes, Keith. Just for you.”

Shiro feels Keith’s well-pleased purr as much as he hears it. It’s going to be lonely sleeping without him again, waking up with neither limbs tangled around him nor the steady, calming presence of another strong heartbeat.

A dozen wisps of ideas slip through Shiro’s mind as he hunts for a reason to meet Keith again— crossing the breadth of the universe just for a romantic rendezvous probably wouldn’t go over well with the Coalition heads _or_ the Blades of Marmora.

But every excuse that comes to mind requires a better working relationship with the reclusive Blades than what he has. They wouldn’t agree to joint exercises or an exchange of intelligence. They’ve turned down formal discussions of an alliance three times already. Hell, Shiro doesn’t even know what quadrant the Blades are based out of, or what they might desire enough to tempt them into trade, aside from Ymiron’s ore.

Keith’s thoughts must be running similar. His eyes sparkle in what little light shines off of Shiro’s comm bracelet. His drying hair hangs around his face and shoulders in loose, midnight waves, like silk to the touch; Shiro can’t keep his fingers out of it.

“You know,” Keith breathes against Shiro’s ear, words rolling out honeyed slow, “if you’re willing to make the journey to Blades’ Refuge and brave the Trials of Marmora, I could arrange a meeting between you and our clan leader.

Shiro’s breath hitches in his chest. 

“For negotiations. For the Coalition,” Keith adds as an unnecessary afterthought, a flimsy justification that will let Shiro come home with him.

It’s an offer of more time, one more chance to see Keith again— and possibly many more after, if Shiro plays his cards right with the clan’s leader.

And that’s an easy call— made easier still by the way Keith kisses him after, all warmth and languid hunger.

Shiro hums as soon as Keith draws back to nuzzle into his temple, the note reverberating deep in his chest. “And where would I stay?” he asks, playing coy.

“I’m sure Kolivan would find a comfortable place for you. Unless…” Keith’s smile carries in his soft, sensuous tone. “Unless you want to stay with me? My bed’s _much_ smaller, though. It would be a really _._ Tight. Fit.”

Keith punctuates each word with a kiss.

Shiro hums through it, eyes closed, smiling against Keith’s lips. “I think we can make that work.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on twitter [@saltisochi](https://twitter.com/saltisochi)


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